


bet you didn't know someone could love you this much

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Branding, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, standard warning for Handsome Jack being Handsome Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s this—this thing Jack does, where the softer he’s talking, the gentler he’s touching, the more Timothy worries. It’d been the first hint he’d gotten that maybe his boss was a little bit less than stable, the way he seems to delight in the contrasts—Jack sometimes seems to him like the kind of person who’d be humming you a lullaby while he pulls your entrails out.</p><p>“Right,” Timothy says, “I know, Jack—”</p><p>“Nah, you’re not getting it,” Jack interrupts. “It’s about image, right? Our image. And we’re going to be doing a little re-branding here at Hyperion Corp.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	bet you didn't know someone could love you this much

Jack’s fingers are light where they trace Timothy’s wrists, soft and considering, and Tim tries his best to force down the growing panic. There’s an unfamiliar look on Jack’s face, like he’s somewhere far away, somewhere distant and strange. His eyes meet Timothy’s and his face shifts back into something worryingly hungry, predatory, his smile sharp.

“You comfortable like this, kiddo?” Jack says, fitting one hand over the restraints locking Tim to the chair, and as usual, it’s not really a question. Jack had replaced Tassiter’s chair—he’d called it “inadequately imposing”—not long after he’d taken over the office, and Timothy’s pretty sure the old model hadn’t come with built in handcuffs.

One of Jack’s knees comes up to press between Timothy’s legs, nudging his thighs apart, pressing down against his groin, and Tim sucks in a sharp breath that Jack ignores, resting his forearms on Tim’s shoulders.

“We gotta talk, babe,” he says. His face is close to Tim’s, dangerously so. His breath is hot against the side of Tim’s face, lips just ghosting along his hairline.

“Okay,” Timothy says. “Sure.” There’s a hitch in his voice that he hopes Jack doesn’t notice. He’s learned by now that it’s best not to show Jack any weakness—it’s too tempting to him, like showing a wolf an injured deer.

“There’s this thing,” Jack says. “Corporate uniformity. Hyperion’s weak right now; new leadership and all that, Tassiter’s left all his files a friggin’ disaster, the shareholders are panicking, I’m busy rooting out redundancies left and right, not to mention all the goddamn cleanup the Lost Legion left us. So we gotta present a unified front, you know what I’m saying?” He strokes a thumb over Timothy’s cheekbone.

There’s this—this thing Jack does, where the softer he’s talking, the gentler he’s touching, the more Timothy worries. It’d been the first hint he’d gotten that maybe his boss was a little bit less than stable, the way he seems to delight in the contrasts—Jack sometimes seems to him like the kind of person who’d be humming you a lullaby while he pulls your entrails out.

“Right,” Tim says, “I know, Jack—”

“Nah, you’re not getting it,” Jack interrupts. “It’s about image, right? Our image. And we’re going to be doing a little re-branding here at Hyperion Corp.”

He keeps one hand curled loosely around Timothy’s throat, the other one coming up to the hinges of the mask, and Tim can only watch helplessly, feeling something cold settle slowly through his veins. It’s like an awful parody of a striptease, Jack releasing each clasp before slowly lifting the mask away and setting it on the desk.

If Tim hadn’t known he was in trouble before—well. He’s seen Jack without the mask just once since the Vault of the Sentinel, and it had been, God, terrifying, Jack raging and spitting, his eyes nothing short of demented. There’s no rage there now, just an eerie stillness that’s somehow worse.

The scar’s turned blue since the last time Timothy had seen it, like knotted veins. The flesh around it is pale and pitted and the eye it crosses is milky and dead-looking, the skin beneath it pulled down grotesquely. Jack smiles and the left side of his mouth doesn’t follow it, turning it into a crooked snarl.

“So,” he says. “This is gonna hurt just a little bit.” He traces the vault symbol with one finger, chuckles when Timothy’s eyes follow it, the fear growing into something heavy in his chest.

“Sir,” he says, “Jack, _Jack_ , please—”

“Oh, none of that,” Jack says, laying a thumb against Timothy’s lips. “Begging for mercy is _so_ unappealing. Plus, you’re getting a nice little pay raise from this, isn’t that worth it?”

No, _no_ , God no, it’s really fucking not, and if he’d had any doubts before, it’s pretty obvious now that his boss is _literally fucking insane_. He doesn’t even realize that he’s pulling desperately at the wrist restraints until Jack’s hands clamp down on his forearms, solid and im-fucking-moveable.

“Jack,” Timothy says, “Jack, come on, this isn’t necessary, I can wear the mask, no one will know what it looks like underneath, we don’t have to do this, Jack, God, _please_.” There are tears springing up at the corners of his eyes, and Jack, slowly, with unending tenderness, leans in to lick them away.

“Shush,” he says gently. “I have to do this. It’s about the integrity of the thing. Can’t have you forgetting who you are now.” He presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead. “Or who you belong to." 

Jack gets off his lap and wanders out of his field of view and Timothy tries his best to slow his frantic breathing. It feels like an age before Jack returns, wearing two heavy gloves now and carrying a long piece of metal, glowing with heat, in a familiar angled shape.

“ _Jack_ ,” Timothy says again, his voice cracking, and Jack shushes him again.

“I’m giving you a gift, kitten, I thought you’d understand that,” he says, chiding. “Imagine how much worse this could be. Well, you don’t have to imagine. I don’t have to imagine. You were goddamn there.” There’s a familiar bitter note creeping into his voice now, the same as every time he talks about the Vault Hunters. “I’ll even be here to hold your hand, how’s that? No one was there holding _my_  hand, and I managed just fine.”

Timothy would really, really not call what Jack’s doing “fine”. Like not ever.

“Shhh,” Jack murmurs. “You’ll be alright. Hold still, now.”

Later, Timothy will remember the seconds that follow in vivid, excruciating detail, the way Jack tucks his tongue between his teeth, lowering the burning vault symbol with careful, agonizing slowness towards Timothy’s face, his other hand on Timothy’s jaw to hold him in place. He touches the metal to Timothy’s face softly, like a caress, before pressing it down decisively.

And Timothy screams.

 

 

 

After that, his memories are a little more foggy. He has no recollection whatsoever of leaving Jack’s office, only distant, fractured images of a doctor examining him while Jack looked on. He wakes in an unfamiliar bedroom, tangled in white, sweat-soaked sheets, and he can only see out of one eye.

“Oh fuck,” he says, “oh fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Language, kiddo,” a familiar, amused voice says from the other side of the room, and Timothy turns on his side to look at Jack, sprawled out in an armchair, an ECHOtablet in one hand.

“You bastard,” he says. He feels oddly light-headed, which is probably what’s got him saying these things to Jack, of all people. “You goddamn—you _fucking_  bastard, you—”

“Okay, okay, no need for names, princess,” Jack says, voice now somewhere between entertained and annoyed. “Better dial down your pain medication, looks like I have maybe a slightly higher tolerance than you. Should’ve probably anticipated that.”

“I’m good like this,” Tim says. Maybe it’s something about getting his face goddamn _branded_  that’s sort of lessening his fear of the Wrath of Jack. Which should probably not be his response, but whatever, he does not give a shit right now. He sits up straight, untangling himself from the sheets, and looks around as best he can with his vision limited as it is. “Where the fuck am I?”

“Seriously, Jack, we gotta work on your language,” is all the response he gets, and Timothy snarls.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you your _name_?” Jack says, voice low and dangerous, and now he gets up, puts the tablet down and stalks over to Tim. “You’re in my personal apartments. I brought you here because your quarters are a goddamn embarrassment—I know I pay you more than that—and I didn’t want you getting a weird infection and messing up my face for real. Actually, on that subject—” He lays the back of his hand on Timothy’s forehead, and Tim is too startled to do anything but let it rest. “Nah, no fever. Now lie back down and appreciate the unbelievable luxury I am allowing you to recuperate in.”

Jack’s apartments. Ah, shit, there’s something probably really gross about—

“Is this your _bed_?”

Jack snorts. “No, I did not put you in my own bed, this is my guest room. I know you’re me and all, but lay off the ego a little bit.”

Timothy ignores him and reaches up to touch gingerly at the scar splitting his brow before Jack smacks his hand away.

“Don’t touch it, you’ll get germs in it. Just let it be.” He looks down at Timothy’s face critically before nodding. “Yeah, don’t mess up my work.”

Tim sucks in a long breath at that, forcing himself to count down from ten before he says something to Jack that he’ll regret. His work, God.

“Alright, scoot over,” Jack says after giving Timothy a pat on the cheek, climbing in next to him and picking his ECHOtablet up again, his long legs stretched out on top of the covers. His shoes are off, jeans rolled up around his ankles and Tim can’t help staring. He’s never seen his boss with bare feet before. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store or something. “I have some more forms for you to sign.”

Timothy turns away, stares at the wall. The pain meds are starting to wear off, and there’s a burning starting in his face.

“Sign them yourself,” he says. “It’s your signature, anyway.”

“Fair point,” Jack says. “There’s a pitcher of water on the side table. Don’t want you getting dehydrated, that’s no good for the healing process. And I need you back on your feet and killing bandits ASAP.” He makes an exasperated sound when Timothy doesn’t move, reaching over him for the pitcher and a glass, pouring it and holding it out. “Seriously, I will pinch your nose and pour this down your throat,” he says, and Tim drinks, rolling his eyes. He takes the pill Jack offers him, too, and he sleeps.

 

 

 

He wakes again and his head is in _agony_ , like his brain is about three sizes too big for his skull and trying to squeeze itself out through the cracks.

“Nnnnrrrrrrr,” he groans, unable to articulate anything more resembling actual words. He fumbles for the pills Jack left on the bedside table, swallowing two of them dry before making another drawn out _gurrrrrr_  sound to try and relieve his feelings a little.

“Everything okay in there, buttercup?” Jack’s voice asks from the general direction of the doorway and Timothy groans again.

“Fuck off,” he rasps, and Jack actually laughs.

“I’ll be honest, this whole _helpless-kitten-recovering-from-major-trauma_  thing is kind of adorable. Sit up, let me take a look at you.”

“Noooo,” Timothy moans, but Jack manhandles him into a sitting position, pulling his hands off his face and straddling his hips. He lifts his own hands to cup Timothy’s face, tilting it up and side to side to examine it.

“Aw yeah, this is _nice_ ,” he says. “You’re getting fitted for the mask tomorrow, and then you’ll be up and murdering bandits again in no time.”

“No thanks,” Tim mutters, but the headache is starting to recede already, the pressure in his skull slightly less unbearable.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” Jack says, laughing. “God, you smell terrible, though, you need a shower. Or a bath, yeah, with lots of that fancy shit in it. Come on, up.” He climbs off and wedges an arm under Tim’s waist, half-carrying him out of bed. Tim goes as limp as he can but Jack’s always been unexpectedly strong for a programmer and it’s not long before he’s being dragged into the literal fanciest bathroom he’s seen in his life.

“Holy shit,” he says in spite of himself. Everything is gold accents and pearl inlays, the bathtub big enough for three people at least.

“Strip,” Jack tells him from where he’s bent over fiddling with the knobs, turning around and snapping his fingers when Timothy hesitates.

“Can you, like. Leave, maybe?” he says, and Jack rolls his eyes.

“It is quite _l_ _iterally_  nothing I haven’t seen before. Also I’m pretty sure if I leave you alone like this you’re gonna end up drowning yourself by accident. Come on, clothes off.”

Timothy’s fingers worry at the bottom of his t-shirt and Jack sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For the love of—fine, I’ll do it myself.” And then he’s lifting the shirt up, tugging it over Tim’s head and off his arms. He still yelps when Jack’s fingers curl in the waistband of his boxers, backing away and trying to shake him off.

“I can do it, I got it,” he says hastily, wrapping an arm around himself.

“Hurry it up, then,” Jack says, turning away to open up a cupboard and pulling out a red bottle. He shakes a few drops of it into the water and Timothy just stands for a moment and inhales the scent that comes rising up through the steam. It’s heady and exotic, something floral he can’t identify but that he feels like he might have smelled before, on pretty girls in bars, and a spice that seeps hot all through him. Jack has to raise an eyebrow at him before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, flushing and shoving his boxers down his hips and stepping out of them.

“That’s better,” Jack says, _appreciatively_ , and Timothy shuffles into the bath as quickly as he can, sinking down until the water’s up to his waist, hissing at the temperature. Sometimes he suspects Jack just straight up runs a few degrees hotter than normal people, like he’s just constantly running a fever which—actually doesn’t sound terribly unreasonable, considering Jack.

Jack settles on the edge of the bathtub, running a hand through Tim’s hair, a gesture that’s proprietary, not affectionate. It’s gentle, though, so he doesn’t entirely anticipate it when Jack puts his hands on his shoulders and shoves him down under the water.

He comes up choking and spluttering, Jack bent double laughing. “Ah, you should see your face, pumpkin. Relax, had to get your hair wet. Now hold still so I don’t get soap in your eyes.”

Jack’s hands are still oddly soothing working the shampoo through his hair, tangling into knots and smoothing them back out again. He makes shampoo spikes out of Tim’s hair, cackling when he gives Tim a mohawk. Sometimes Timothy isn’t sure that Jack isn’t an actual five-year-old in an adult’s body.

The soap Jack uses to wash his back has the same scent as whatever he’d put in the water, the white cake soft and silky.

“Jasmine sambac,” Jack tells him. “And clary sage. Expensive as all _shit_  to import.” He scrubs behind Timothy’s ears, scolding when he wriggles. He hums consideringly for a moment before he’s pulling his own sweater over his head, shoving his jeans down his hips, and nudging at Timothy to scoot forward. “Budge up, seriously,” he says, settling behind him with Tim tucked between his spread legs.

“Um,” Timothy says.

“Shush,” Jack tells him, pulling him back until Tim’s back is flush with his chest, stroking a washcloth over his front, down his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says, trying to relax, trying to pretend like he isn’t literally lying naked in his boss’ lap. Jack continues his ministrations, dropping a little kiss into Tim’s hair.

“God, you are just _perfect_ ,” he says admiringly, drawing his hand down Tim’s chest, stroking over his stomach. “Seriously, they did an amazing job with you. I have _got_  to make more of you.”

Timothy can’t tell if he’s appalled by that or what. He wonders if Jack will scar the others by hand or let the doctors do it for him.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says, lips trailing against his ear. “You’ll still be my favorite Jack. We’ve been through too much together, haven’t we?” He pinches one of Timothy’s nipples, like punctuation, and Tim gasps and jerks back against Jack instinctively.

Jack laughs at that, a fond sound. “Sensitive, aren’t you? Maybe we should work on that.” His hand sweeps down, down, stroking at Tim’s inner thighs, pushing his legs apart. He circles Tim’s cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, and Timothy throws his head back against Jack’s shoulder and digs his nails into his palms. He moans when Jack’s fingers trace over his balls, stroke his perineum, letting out a little, “ _fuck_ , Jack.”

“Alright, I know we’ve talked about the language thing,” Jack says, pinching the tip of Tim’s cock, drawing an undignified squawking sound out of his throat. “Behave yourself. I’m doing you an incredible favor here.”

“Y-yeah,” Timothy says breathlessly, “ah, mother of—oh, oh,” as Jack strokes him roughly, his other hand toying with Tim’s nipples.

“Hey,” Jack says when Tim tucks his face into Jack’s neck. “Hey, stop that. Why do you think I’ve got a mirror in here? _Watch_.”

It’s with extreme reluctance that Timothy opens his eyes, turning forward and—yeah, there’s where he’s been trying not to look.

The scar that stretches across his face now is livid, a deep red where Jack’s is blue. Other than that, it’s a perfect match, down to where the green eye’s turned white and dead. This, even more than that first surgery, is Jack’s mark of ownership on him. Marking his property.

“Can’t do anything about the color,” Jack says. “Which I guess is the difference between getting punched in the face with an Eridian relic and a regular old brand. Still, looks pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

Jack’s much rougher with his strokes than Timothy ever is with himself, and he gasps and keens, biting his lip until it bleeds, squirming back against Jack’s chest. “Please,” he says, feeling dizzy, trying not to think about how he’d begged before, begged Jack not to—

“Yeah, that’s it,” Jack says, thumbing at the head, “come on, baby, what’s your name, tell me your name,” teeth scraping along Timothy’s neck.

“ _Jack_ ,” Timothy groans, and comes harder than he thinks he has in his life.

 Jack keeps stroking him through the aftershocks, even when Tim whines as it gets to be too much, cradling him in his arms. “That’s right, pumpkin,” he murmurs in Timothy’s ear, “let Jack take care of you. I got you, don’t you worry. You’re all mine, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaauuuuuurrrrgh jack is the worst and predictably is the most fun to write
> 
> in other news im still a big sucker for bodily autonomy issues


End file.
